


Picture Perfect (with every brush stroke)

by vinzha



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Childhood, Gen, alternate Universe - Soulmarks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 17:42:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinzha/pseuds/vinzha
Summary: People are born as blank slates, with no marks marring their skin, no attachments made too early in their short lives. Lance was different. Lance was born with a grey smear on his left arm, a smear that blossomed as he grew, becoming blue and petaled. By the time he was six, he had a fully covered back. By the time he was seventeen, he was covered head to toe with stars, planets, galaxies, two constellations, ribbons, and a blue flower that reminded him of his mother.





	Picture Perfect (with every brush stroke)

When Lance was born, the nurse pointed at the grey smear on his left arm and said in a professionally delighted voice, “Look at that! A rarity, this baby is.”

  
And in a way, Lance was. Only a small portion of the world was born with marks, the majority of which were for their mothers. The minority is mostly the people with the special ability to form affection for the inorganic, such as the sounds they hear or the sights they see.

  
(Lance privately likes to think he’s the more special one out of the bunch regardless. That was sort of his thing.)

  
-.-.-.-

  
  
When he was two months old, three more marks appeared on Lance’s skin. The grey smear on his arm blued and petaled quickly, a blooming love (the First Love) made all the more special because of its presence since even before his first breath. Around it morphed shapes that changed weekly, a little more defined each time.  
  
Children were prone to those, a kaleidoscope of shifting prisms and uncertain realities. Young as he was, Lance’s marks were as changeable as the rest of them.

  
-.-.-.-

  
  
When he was eight years old, he saw a girl with sun-kissed skin and a nest of black hair that bounced every time she looked up at the teacher. A red ribbon tied itself around his small pinkie and wound up his arm, draped across his collarbone, fading into his chest. Lance had always been a romantic at heart, and even as his siblings teased him that “soul marks don’t work like that, idiota”, he still traced the crimson line every day.

  
Every day until she flat-out rejected him when he asked her to go on the swings with him. (Any disrespect toward the swings was a direct insult to his entirely-too-large family.)

 

  
-.-.-.-

  
  
By age eleven, Lance’s arms were almost filled, with more marks sprinkled across the rest of his body. By age seventeen, he was a canvas bursting at the seams. Ribbons crawled up his arms more than twice from each finger, knotting at his heart, yet still going around to make space for the blue flower, because his mother was more important than any sort of crush, okay? (Yes, he was a mama’s boy, deal with his coolness in peace).

  
The constellation of Andromeda across his collarbone for his sister Veronica, a pair of antlers accentuating his eyebrows reaching up towards his hairline on his forehead for his father, feathers arching up his neck from the dip of his collar around, the tips touching at his nape for his cousins, each and every one slightly different from the other. A moon for Luis, an asteroid belt around his ankle for Marco. Cartoonish stars danced between the ribbons, his celebrity crushes two-dimensional shapes of the very same titles.

  
(There was a reason so many of his marks were space-related. Ever since he was five, he wanted to explore the universe, to climb the empty void and touch planets. And so, it was meant to be.)

  
Once, Lance fell and crapped his knee on the asphalt, and the cry brought Veronica out running. She was supposed to watch over him, though Lance wondered how exactly a thirteen-year-old should even take care of an eleven-year-old. Marco and Luis were both old enough to be out of the house, and with grandma sick, Veronica was the only one who could watch over the baby of the family (no matter how much he complains that he was in the double digits already (clearly a sign of maturity). She soothed him the best she could, bringing him inside to bandage him up.

  
The bandage had heart on it, and a few weeks later, Andromeda had a heart in the center of the constellation.

  
(Lance always felt bad for his sister, in ways he wouldn’t understand until much older.)

  
-.-.-.-

  
  
He met Hunk at age twelve when the boy was in front of his garage repairing a bicycle (or, it looked like he was repairing it. Looking back on it, he very well could’ve been dismantling it for all Lance knew). Lance was on his daily run-from-Veronica-because-he-made-her-angry-again, but soon he found himself sitting on the cement, watching deft hands (for a twelve-year-old) move across the bicycle.

  
The rest became history.

  
Hunk was a five-inch mountain on his left side, a hulking majestic work of art if Lance could say anything about it. Lance was a water-cress wrapping around Hunk’s right wrist, and soon it became a habit to always stand next to each other in a way that would keep their soul marks closest.

  
-.-.-.-

  
  
When Lance got into the Garrison, he was noticed by his classmates first for being the loudest cheerer when simulations were announced, and the most expressive groaner when test days were chosen. But soon, when the uniform-free days rolled in, the canvas that was Lance became a brief topic of discussion.

  
“How does he even get new marks at this point?” One curious student asked curiously to her friend.

  
“My question is still how he even got into the Garrison,” The friend responded, going back to their previous discussion on Lance’s behavior in class, breaking down every little action in as many words as possible. And those around them nodded, thoughtful looks appearing on their faces.

  
Lance could hear them, of course. People talking about others aren’t nearly as discreet as they believe themselves to be.

  
(Hunk always stayed with him when Lance was feeling down, with their marked sides pressed together, speaking in small voices that disappeared within the ever-present fluctuation of the smallest molecules in the air.)

  
(Lance always got a little melodramatic when he got down. But it’s okay, because Hunk will always there with him, an unmovable structure of nature that hides his blindsides.)

  
-.-.-.-

  
  
Pidge is the sparrow on the inside of his right wrist. No matter how hard he begs, she won’t tell him what his mark for her is.

  
“Please?”

  
“No.”

  
“Why though? C’mon, show me show me.”

  
She rolled her eyes, pushing his head away with a huff, and flatly said, “How are you so sure I even have a mark for you?”

  
He gasped, “What? Nooo, no way. I’m too awesome.”

  
She ignored him for the next hour.

  
-.-.-.-.-

  
  
In his next video call with Veronica, she whispered to him, “I have a girlfriend now.”

  
Lance held up his pinkie, encircled by countless hopeless infatuations, and swore he would never tell (he kept it).

  
In his next video call with his mother, he asked her, “Is Veronica alright? No more crazy temper tantrums or insane beauty regimens?”

  
His mother pointed out with a laugh, “Don’t be dense Lance, that was always you.” And they laughed together over the thin connection spanning thousands of miles.

  
-.-.-.-

  
  
Lance first saw Keith in class, but he first remembered him during the beginning simulation.

  
Who could forget the kid who broke legendary Shirogane’s record on his first try?

  
And he couldn’t help but feel it was unfair, so unfair, because how can that even be real? It hurt, when he crashed. It hurt when he failed. It hurt right there, in the center of his chest, and sometimes he wonders if climbing the void will wash away the hurt or not if void can erase as easily as it creates.

  
(Years later, dagger imprinted itself on the center of his chest, and he wondered if dislike could be strong enough to become marks as well. But no, at that point he didn’t dislike Keith anymore. After fighting an intergalactic empire together and saving each other’s lives countless times, wouldn’t it be a little hypocritical to deny being friends?)

  
-.-.-.-

(Towards the end of a long message. this can be heard - )

  
“So. Mom – I – hi. I already said that. How is Veronica? Is – she alright? No more crazy temper tantrums or insane beauty regimens?” There was a weak laugh, a little shaky, with a small choke at the end. “Is Marco finally marrying Emelia? Did Luis make it to graduation? I swear, he’s worse than me at procrastinating –” a quick breath. A pause. “Is grandma getting any better? Did Dad get a promotion? Are you guys all doing okay? Did Cassandra finally admit she can’t match up to your garlic knots?”

  
A sound of cloth moving, a deep breath before a deep sigh.

  
“I’m. I’m okay. I’m doing okay. I’m still throwing epic temper tantrums, though my beauty regimen is suffering a little right now.” Another pause, this time a little longer, a little bit fuller with words unsaid. “I love you guys. I know I already explained what happened earlier in this message, but this is the most important. I love you. I will see you all, I promise. I will.”

  
Static, before the close.

  
  
-.-.-.-

  
  
“What do all of these symbols and pictures on your skin mean?” A curious alien child asked with wide eyes.

  
Lance grinned down at her. “My battle scars,” he replied, laughing when Pidge smacked him.

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I could have written more about Shiro, Allura, and Coran, but word limits man.
> 
> The lovely artwork (made by the lovely thislovelymaelstrom) can also be found here:
> 
> https://thislovelymaelstrom.tumblr.com/post/174908970680/an-eight-year-old-lance-looks-upon-his-new-soul
> 
> Please check out their other works as well as more from the event!


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